


Heat Haze Days

by Ryntaia



Category: Persona 5, persona - Fandom
Genre: Heat Haze Days, Heavy Angst, M/M, Tragedy, kagerou days, survivor's guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 00:49:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11863167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryntaia/pseuds/Ryntaia
Summary: The days may be gone, but the memories will not fade. Particularly the ones that Akira couldn’t even see to begin with. Based loosely on the song ‘Heat Haze Days’ with some seasonal and dates changed in the lyrics to suit the composition.





	Heat Haze Days

_It happened at around 12:30 AM on December 15 th._

_The weather was nice._

           In the prior year, Kurusu Akira had become very acquainted with blood. The blood of his friends, the blood of his enemies, and even his own blood. It had a tangy, metallic taste and an ugly smell that was ever so subtle yet invasive. It could come from a gash the sent currents of pain through his entire form, or a single slice that barely scrapped a layer of skin yet unleashed currents of the red liquid. In some way he had become accustomed to it. Blood was honest and true; there wasn’t a lie that blood could tell you. It meant you had done something wrong, that you needed to change your tactics, that you needed to give attention to your health immediately.

           He found that not seeing blood was almost far more unnerving.

 

            _“Well, you know, I kind of hate winter,”_

_A bold murmur while petting a cat._

 

           It was like some sort of cognitive dissonance, that curve between sight and sound. The barrier between scent and what could be viewed. Seeing blood in front of him let him know what action he needed to take right then and there; only hearing the sickening sound a bullet cutting through the air and finding its target left him with confusion and and an upset stomach. What to do? There was no time left. It was winter. They had no time before the elections came in.

           There was nothing to be seen. Only sounds to hear and scents to smell. The scent of blood reaching his nostrils as he tried to keep his cool. In his ears was a dull throbbing sound that nearly drowned out the words of the redhead next to him quietly talking about what she could and couldn’t see with that amazing power of hers. But he could not see it; he could not figure out if he could reach back out and pull the broken teenager away from himself.

           When he could see their pain he could heal their pain.

           But he couldn’t see a drop of Akechi Goro’s blood anymore.

 

_Ah, you pursued that cat as it ran away from you._

_And what jumped out was the traffic light that changed to glaring red._

_Suddenly it came out of nowhere and struck you as you screamed._

_Your scent was mingled with sprayed blood and it choked me._

 

           In the back of his mind, Akira knew that the actions that had been chosen by Akechi Goro were probably the only ones he could’ve taken. The boy had been too far gone and no manner of pleading would reach him enough, at least not enough to clean the slate of the child assassin’s long list of crimes. For Akechi, he realized, this had been the only choice—to jump in front of the bullet that could stop Akira and his comrades. He understood that, he did, and he told himself that repeatedly even during the long nights he spent in Juvenile Detention.

           But the scents and sounds haunted him. It was as if he could feel himself, his OTHER self, coyly wrapping red-gloved fingers around his shoulder and reminding him every day. Those gloves still carried that scent and each thrum of the non-existant fingers on his shoulder sounded akin to the ringing shot that had coursed through the engine room. Kurusu Akira was trying to forget; Joker would not allow him to. Of course he wouldn’t. The Joker desired truth, and truth was this reality.

 

_In the haze of lies, the haze of the heat laughed, “This is all real!”_

_With that, like a cricket’s sound being disturbed, the light blue of winter darkened away._

_Yet I wake to the sound of a ticking clock._

_What time is it now?_

 

           He stared at the ceiling blankly.

 

           It hadn’t changed. It was still the dusty gray cement of his temporary prison. He would be released soon. The closer it came to his departure date, the less real his own world felt. It was isolated, and the idea of leaving this place felt unreal. Was he ever truly not in this place? This cold, empty prison surrounded by jeering and judging eyes from people he barely knew but was told to live up to the expectations of. It had been his Velvet Room and it was now his reality. He had a release date yet in this dark place, Akira couldn’t even remember what it was at times.

           The Joker still stood across from him the cell, glaring red eyes fixed on him from behind the mask. With him is the sound of red-gloved fingers thrumming against an arm, the sound he tries to ignore yet reminds him that no matter how isolated and distant he feels now, it was all real. From the good, all the way down to the bad.

           The decaying scent was still there.

 

_The hands on the clock point a little past noon on February 14 th._

_I recalled the sound of an awfully annoying cricket._

_“I should go home for today,”_

_When I was on my way the people all around me all looked up with their mouths gaping._

 

           It’s long past the point, a good three months past the point. No one is actually looking at him anymore. They’ve all moved on to whatever the newest sensation is and the only eyes on him are the eyes of his friends and his prosecutor turned defense attorney. Their eyes are happy and welcoming and it is clear they have been thinking of Akira nonstop since he put himself up as the sacrificial lamb at Shido’s trial. Their faces are kind and loving and for the first time in a long time, Akira feels something akin to comfortable again.

           He still can’t help but feel this odd sensation of being watched, though. Even as people have moved on to the next big thing, it somehow feels like people are all watching him. He knows that there is definitely one pair of eyes on him. Joker has not left Akira since the Juvenile Detention Center; his presence was waned by the elation of his allies but his other self still walks in tandem with him. He still wears that ugly smile and he still smells of decay.

           He knows that Joker isn’t actually there. Because he IS Joker.

            But there he stays anyways.

 

            _From the sky dropped down iron bits that pierced through you._

_A tearing scream and the sound of wind chimes echo through the trees._

_In this unnatural scene the shimmering heat laughed “This is the real thing!”_

_Through my darkening eyes I thought I saw you smile._

 

 

          Once he was out of the Detention Center was when the dreams began.

           It was a different dream every night; the mangled body from a car accident, the spraying blood from a construction mishap, the distant and blurry but unmistakably still form at the bottom of the stairs. Brunette hair was laced with strands of red blood and pale skin was marred with the ugly fluid. Limbs were limp; a marked briefcase lay forgotten at the teenager’s side. Always silent, always accompanied by that ringing sound of a shot no matter what the cause. Always drunk on that scent of decay.

           All Akira could do in these dreams was stand there and watch it happen, the arm of his other self threaded around his shoulders with a poisonous smirk spreading the features under the white mask. As if the Joker exerted some sort of powerful energy over Akira (and why wouldn’t he) he would keep the leader of the Phantom Thief alert to every moment of every death. Each and every scene that was worse than the last and likely far more brutal than what had actually happened, what he had never seen.

HE would not let himself look away.

           HE would not let himself not see the smile that seemed to cross Akechi’s face every time he finally faded away.

           As if he was smiling to Akira. To tell him to stop. To let it go.

           But he couldn’t.

 

            _The sneering heat haze plunders away one darkened world after another._

_It’ll repeat for decades now. I’ve realized that by now._

_This kind of frequently repeating story has only one kind of ending._

_But it can be found beyond those repeating winter days._

 

           He keeps a smile on for his friends but they know something is wrong. Akira doesn’t let them get too deep into it; he knows that the Joker will never go away like the personas of the other Thieves has. The Joker feels a great amount of dirt on his hands even for the dirtiest of people, possibly because of the heavy burden that weighs on his own heart. Maybe, he thinks, that is why their personas left and the Joker stayed. They felt bad about what happened despite Akechi’s wrongdoings but they didn’t feel as deeply for the brunette as Akira did.

           They did not think back to a time in a café where gentle banter was exchanged and masks were lifted for only those few moments.

           They did not think back to a time in a studio where a connection was sewn regardless of intention.

           They did not think back to a time in a train station where light concerns were exchanged in order to mask for their own larger misgivings.

           So behind them did not stand the Joker, sneering and laughing and repeating his tired and malicious joke. The only ending was that there was no ending; it was a feeing that he and he alone had to live with. Guilt and loss. Being the saving hand for so many but failing to save someone who needed it so desperately, who HE needed so desperately. So he would live out these days.

           And aside he would stand the Joker.

 

 

_It’s quite a regular winter for me._

_But all of that ends today._

_Awakening on February 14 th in a velvet room, a brunette, hugging a cat alone._

_Said, “It didn’t work again.”_


End file.
